That evening Joe sought out Rusty in his room in the village. “I guess I might as well quit,” he said. “I’m no good at it, Rusty, and there’s no sense in my taking the place of some fellow who can play better. You and Gus have been mighty decent, but I said when I started that I didn’t want the job if I couldn’t earn it, and I haven’t. I’ve heard more or less talk, too. Some fellows say I’m on just because I’m rooming with Gus, or because I’m baseball captain. Well, I’d rather they didn’t think that.”

“What are you trying to do?” asked Rusty. “Resign?”

“Yes.” Joe smiled and added: “Before I’m fired.”

“Well, your resignation isn’t accepted, Kenton.”

Joe observed the coach doubtfully. “But—but I’m in earnest,” he protested. “It’s fine of you to be willing to put up with me, Rusty, but I—I don’t want you to think that you’ve got to—that is, that you’re under any obligation to find a place for me on the eleven.”

“Obligation be blowed,” said Rusty. “What are you talking about, anyway? I don’t get you, Kenton.”

“Why, what I mean is—look here, Rusty. You know that if I wasn’t baseball captain I’d have been let out two weeks ago. Well, I don’t want to play football enough to keep my place by favor, and so—”

“Oh, that’s it,” interrupted Rusty. “I get you now. So you think I’m nursing you along because you’re baseball captain, eh?”

“Well,” answered Joe, smiling, but uneasy because of a sudden setting of Rusty’s face, “it’s done, isn’t it?”

Rusty shook his head, his mouth drawn to a grim line.

“Not this fall, Kenton,” he said.

Joe stared back a moment, and then, as Rusty said no more, laughed perplexedly. “Well—” he began vaguely.

“When you aren’t any more use to the team, Kenton,” announced the coach quietly, “I’ll tell you. But you wait until I do. If every one of that bunch who played ragged this afternoon came to me and resigned I wouldn’t have any team to-morrow. Good night.”

Joe, still perplexed although greatly relieved, went back and reported the conversation to Gus. Gus called him a moron.

A week later Holman’s came back and played a very decent game against the State Aggies team of husky, rangy veterans. She was beaten, but only by a matter of two inches. Which is to say that if Brill’s second attempt at a goal after touchdown had sent the pigskin two inches higher it would have bounded over the bar instead of under. As it was, the final score was 14 to 13, and as Holman’s had never hoped for better than a tied score the result was accepted philosophically. Joe played fairly well during the twenty-odd minutes that he was in; rather better on defense than on attack, although he did get away once for a twelve-yard run that for the moment made him look almost like a real football player. One thing he did to the King’s taste—and Gus’s—was to follow the ball, which accounted for the fact that he had several fine tackles to his credit. Joe was not a little set up that evening, although he tried not to let the fact be known. Gus, who was in a jovial and expansive mood as a result of having more than outplayed his opponent, insisted that Joe was every bit as good as Hearn and “a blamed sight better than all the other subs!” Joe was pleased, but sprinkled quite a quantity of salt on the avowal.

There was a week of extremely hard work before the Wagnalls game. Rusty called always for speed and more speed. You simply couldn’t satisfy him, it seemed, and when practice was over the walk to the gymnasium was ten miles long! But the Light Green certainly showed improvement by the end of that week. Plays went off more smoothly and a lot faster, and it did seem as though the team had at last really found itself. In the Wagnalls game Joe made his first touchdown, slipping around his own right end behind the entire backfield and getting free when Sawyer, playing right half, dumped the opposing end. Joe started his run from the enemy’s twenty-seven and had no opposition, once past the line, save from the Wagnalls quarter. Joe outguessed that youth very neatly and eluded a desperate tackle, taking the ball over for the second score of the game to the plaudits of the Holman’s rooters. The game was one-sided from the start and the home team hung up five touchdowns for a grand total of 34 points while Wagnalls was scoring 7. Joe stayed in a full half and, save that he once got his signals twisted, comported himself very well. Even his one lapse went unpenalized since, more by luck than skill, he got enough ground to make it first down again.

Then, almost before any one realized it, it was Thursday and the last practice was over and nothing was left to do save sit tight and wait for the big adventure.

Of course there were drills on Friday, both in the afternoon and evening, but they were designed more to keep the fellows from getting “edgy” than to impart instruction. Friday evening Rusty turned from the blackboard, dusted the chalk from his hands and spoke for ten minutes very earnestly. What he said was about what all coaches have said on the eve of big games since coaches and big games have been. Followed some rather hysterical cheering and then twenty-six lads went back to the dormitories and wooed slumber. Needless to say, a good many of the number found slumber not easily won. Rather to his surprise, however, Joe fell asleep soon after his head touched the pillow, beating Gus by a good half-hour.

Munson came in numbers, waving blue-and-gold pennants and cheering lustily as they took possession of the village. The invaders appeared very certain of themselves, Joe thought, and his own confidence lessened appreciably. Even when Gus, viewing the enemy from the steps of Puffer, scathingly disposed of them as “a bunch of morons” Joe couldn’t quite get back his last night’s serenity.

Munson kicked off promptly at two o’clock and Sanford fumbled the ball on Holman’s sixteen yards, where an enemy end fell on it. It took Munson just seven plays to put the pigskin over and hang up six points to her credit. Holman’s was so overcome by the initial disaster that her efforts to stop the enemy’s charges were almost pathetic. Munson missed the goal by inches, and Holman’s, taking what comfort she could, cheered long and loud. Joe watched that first half of the game from the bench, Dave Hearn playing left half, and Leary right. After that first score neither goal line was seriously threatened until the second period was well along. Holman’s, recovering from her shock, beat back two invasions of her territory short of the thirty-yard line and finally started one of her own. It looked good until it approached the opposite thirty. Then it slowed and faltered and, after Brill had failed to get the ball to Ted Lord on a forward pass, Sanford sacrificed two yards to get the pigskin in front of the Munson goal. Brill tried a placement from the thirty-three, but the ball went far short. Munson didn’t force the playing after that, but kicked on second down and was content to let the score stay as it was until half-time. Twice, however, Holman’s started off for the enemy goal and made good going until well past midfield. There the attack invariably petered out, for the Munson line was strong and steady. Barring that first misadventure and its result, the opposing teams played very evenly. If Munson’s backfield was as slow as Gus had predicted—and hoped—the fact was not very evident in that half of the contest. Nor was the Light Green backfield at all dazzling in its movements. An unbiased observer would probably have said that neither team was playing within thirty per cent of its best, and he would have been close to the facts. The second quarter ended with the ball in Munson’s possession on her own forty-four yards.

In the locker room at the gymnasium, above the slap-slap of the rubbers, Rusty’s voice dominated everything, save, perhaps, the pungent odor of rubbing alcohol and linament, during the last three minutes of half-time. Rusty had finished with criticism and instruction. Now he was talking straight from the shoulder. It was old stuff, but it sounded new and wonderful, and some of the younger fellows choked while they listened and clenched their hands and set their young mouths sternly. Rusty didn’t get “sloppy,” but he certainly had them swallowing hard toward the end and sent them back fighting hot.

As I’ve said before, there was more in it for Rusty than a mere victory over the hereditary enemy, and any man who won’t fight hard for his job doesn’t deserve to hold it!

Joe took Hearn’s place at left half and Sawyer went in at right end instead of Leary. Slim Porter, who had been removed in the first period after some one had stepped ungently on his nose, was reinstated, well taped of countenance. Otherwise the line-up was the same as had ended the first half. It took four minutes for Holman’s to recover the pigskin after the kick-off. Then Sawyer pulled down a punt and was toppled over on his twenty-one yards after a six-yard dash. Holman’s played better ball then and played it faster. Sanford abandoned his safety first policy and called for plays that were ordinarily held back for desperate moments. For a time they went well, for Munson found it hard to realize that the enemy had really cut loose from the former old-style “hit-the-wall” plays. When she awoke Holman’s was on her thirty-five-yards and still coming. But nothing came of that advance in the end. Some one was caught off-side and the invader was set back five yards. Then Hap Ferris made a low pass to Sawyer and the best Sawyer could do was make it safe for an eight-yard loss. In the end Brill again tried a place-kick and again failed, and the ball was Munson’s on her twenty.

Joe had taken his share of the work and had been as successful as Sawyer, but his gains had been short. Getting away from the Munson secondary defense was not an easy feat. Always he was nabbed after three yards or four, or, as on one memorable occasion, seven. The third quarter wore toward its end without more scoring. Once Munson tried a desperate drop-kick from the thirty-two yards, but it went wide. With four minutes of that third period left, however, the unexpected happened.

Munson had slipped in two substitutes, a right guard and a left half-back, and, not to be outdone, Rusty had responded by replacing Ferris with Halliday at center. Hap had been used rather roughly, if one judged by appearances! Munson had the ball on Holman’s forty-two yards on second down when the unexpected came to pass. She had made a scant two past Captain Gus and now she was evidently aiming at the same place. But the new half-back, fresh from the bench, a rangy, tow-headed lad just oozing enthusiasm, muffed the pass. There was a frenzied shriek of “Ball! Ball!” and a wild scramble at the left of the enemy line. Then Joe ducked through on the other side, past a guard whose attention had momentarily strayed, gathered the trickling oval up from under the feet of the enemy and—went back again!

Going back again was a masterpiece of subtle strategy, for he was aided by the selfsame guard who, finding an enemy inside his territory, promptly thrust him toward whence he had come, failing to observe until too late the fact that the enemy was taking the ball with him! Once free from the guard’s attentions, Joe dug his cleats and left the locality just as fast as his legs would let him, which was quite fast. When the lost ball was at last discovered, which was within a much shorter period of time than has been consumed in telling it, it was well on its way toward the Munson goal line. Joe had cleared the enemy right end unchallenged. Confusion and pandemonium reigned, and twenty-one players and at least two officials did their level best to catch up with Joe. But that was rather a hopeless undertaking, for Joe had secured a fine start. When he crossed the goal line, after a brisk dash of fifty-odd yards, he was practically unattended. There was a great deal of shouting going on as Joe breathlessly placed the pigskin on the ground and draped himself about it.

Various green-stockinged youths pounded or squeezed from Joe’s body what little breath remained in it, and then Gus had his go and babbled something about “following-the-ball-I’ll-say-so-what-do-you-know-about-it-you-old-thief-eh!” And all the while he whanged Joe on the back and grinned from ear to ear. Then comparative silence fell while Brill tried to boot the pigskin over the bar for the much-needed one point and the Munson crowd came charging through and spoiled the whole business! That was disappointing, but at least the score was even and there was still another period. Joe was glad when the quarter ended a minute later, for he could rinse out his mouth at the water pail and get some air back into his lungs.

Ten minutes later, or maybe eleven—I am speaking of playing and not elapsed time—it had become generally accepted that 6 to 6 was to be the final score of that game. Each side was trying hard to be philosophical and keep in sight the fact that a tied score was better any day than a defeat. One thing had been shown very conclusively, which was that, eliminating accidents, neither team was able to score against the other. Each might advance the ball to its opponent’s thirty-five or even thirty, but beyond that point there was no going. Of course accidents had happened and might happen again, but one couldn’t depend on them. Since the last period had started there had been several fumbles and near fumbles, for each team was now leavened with second and third-string players, but the resultant advantages to the opponent had been slight. There had been penalties inflicted, too, but they had been inflicted impartially. So far as present results went, Holman’s and Munson were just where they had been when they started, absolutely even. Some fifty-five minutes of playing time had brought advantage to neither the Light Green or the Blue and Gold.

Joe was still in, and so was Sawyer, but Brill had gone and Sanford had gone and there were two substitutes on the ends and three strange backs between them. Both teams were still fighting hard and desperately, but they were slowing up fast. Under Clinker’s leadership Holman’s lacked its former aggressiveness and even Gus’s husky imploring couldn’t put speed into the Light Green. There was a good deal of punting now and many rather hopeless attempts at forward passes. Most of the latter grounded, but finally Clinker did get a short heave over the center of the line to his right end and the latter made a half dozen strides before he was obliterated. That put the ball on Munson’s forty-eight. Joe tried a run outside his own left tackle and was stopped and Sawyer got three through the center. Then Sawyer failed to gain and Norman, who had taken Brill’s job, punted over the goal line. Some one proclaimed three minutes to play as Munson lined up on her twenty. One easily stopped plunge at the left of center, and Munson booted from her ten-yard line. It was a short punt and it went out at the thirty-seven. The Holman’s stands came to life again with a hoarse cheer of triumph. Norman got a scant yard and Sawyer took two. Then Joe scampered wide around his right and added two more before he was run out of bounds. It was fourth down and, since Norman was no field-goal kicker, he punted from near the forty. By some freak of fortune the ball went the whole way and again fell behind the goal line, and again Munson touched it back and brought it out to her twenty. The time keeper said one minute and forty seconds.

Well, much may happen in one and two-thirds minutes, and in this particular one and two-thirds minutes much did. Munson decided to take no risk and her left half went back to kicking position. Very, very desperately Holman’s strove to break through and block that punt, but just as desperately the Blue-and-Gold line held her off. Yet the Holman’s determination had its effect. The enemy center passed low and the punter was hurried. The ball went high in the air and there a vagrant breeze took it and wafted it back toward the Munson goal. When it descended it was no further from where it had begun its flight than the twenty-five-yard line. It was Norman who claimed it, although half the Holman’s players might have caught it as easily. The Munson ends, indeed most of the Munson team, were waiting to down the catcher. Which was friend and which was enemy was very hard to determine in that moment. Then the ball came down, lazily, turning end over end. Norman stepped back a foot or so, ready to seize it and plunge ahead. Perhaps he thought too much of the plunge and not enough of the catch, for the ball came down not into his hands but against his shoulder. From there it arched to the left, well out of the congested district, on a ten-yard flight.

Joe had been watching the ball quite as attentively as any one, perhaps more attentively since watching the ball had become something of a habit with him, but he had not pushed into the mÊlÉe. Instead, he was well to the left of it, and from there he was better able to follow the ball’s supplementary flight. Consequently, when he saw it coming in his direction he met it half way. He didn’t have to fight for its possession, for the nearest claimant was fully three yards distant when he wrapped his hands about it. Between him and the goal lay some twenty-seven yards and, theoretically speaking, eleven enemies. Actually only about half that number were in position to dispute his passage, but they were earnest and determined, and Joe’s work was cut out for him. He sidestepped one, and then another. One of his own team disposed of a third and then Joe was dodging this way and that, now perilously close to the side line, but always going ahead and putting one white streak after another behind him.

He was close to the ten when disaster almost overtook him in the shape of a hurtling Munson Lineman. If the enemy had come at him in less haste the result might have been different. As it was, the Munson fellow’s idea appeared to be to knock Joe flat by the force of the concussion and make his tackle afterwards. That is where he made his mistake, for, although they met and Joe staggered from the impact, the latter avoided more than half the force of the other’s body by spinning on his heel. There was one second of suspense after that when Joe felt a hand at his ankle, but he was able to pull away before the clutching fingers found a hold. Then the enemy was all about him, it seemed, and he had the ball against the pit of his stomach, his head down and his feet pushing the last few yards of trampled turf behind him. The truth is that, at the end, there were far more friends than foes around him, and that Joe’s final heroic effort to cross the line was made with Gus Billings fairly butting him on! But cross it he did, and that is the main thing!

And while Holman’s went crazy with joy and flocked, dancing and cavorting, along the side line, while Joe fought for breath that wouldn’t come, while cheers for the Light Green assaulted the sky, Norman, who had seldom if ever kicked a goal in all his life, now, just because no one cared whether he succeeded or didn’t, sent the pigskin over the bar as prettily as if the game depended on it!

There were many happy persons around school that evening. There was the whole student body in general, and there were the members of the team in particular. And then there was Gus, who declared a great many times that any one who had ever said that Joe wasn’t a great football player was nothing more or less than a moron! Because, no matter how good a guy was, if he didn’t follow the ball—

And, of course, there was Joe himself, who, while giving Luck its due, still dared to take a little credit for what had happened.

And then there was Rusty.

THE END